


so much the more by nature

by Elizabeth (anghraine)



Series: Rime Royal [1]
Category: The Borgias (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Happy, Brother/Sister Incest, F/M, Incest, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 02:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5029795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anghraine/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few highlights of an alternate, fluffier Season 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so much the more by nature

**Author's Note:**

> For my [kindly Borgias anon](http://anghraine.tumblr.com/post/131232508288/i-hope-you-dont-feel-like-im-pressuring-you-or), because they made me happy.

_Say that we had one father, say one womb_  
_(Curse to my joys!) gave both us life and birth;_  
_Are we not therefore each to other bound_  
_So much the more by nature? By the links_  
_Of blood, of reason? Nay, if you will have’t,_  
_Even of religion, to be ever one,_  
_One soul, one flesh, one love, one heart, one all?_  
—John Ford, _’Tis Pity She’s a Whore_

**I.**

Lucrezia had imagined them in bed before, she and Cesare, longed for him in her dreams, and eventually beyond her dreams. She understood after that terrible night when they all came within a hair of their deaths: their father’s mouth full of poison, assassins in her mother’s house, Cesare only God knew where. And then he was there, holding her, and at the very thought he might have died, could well have died, she wanted him, she knew she’d always wanted him. She tried to turn to Alfonso, first, even as her heart burned for her brother, but Alfonso proved as fickle as every man but Cesare ( _I will make you happy, I promise_ )—

And so she’d already thought of her hands in Cesare’s hair, his lip caught between hers, his hands sliding over her skin—but she never thought they would be laughing.

She should have known. They always laughed.

**II.**

Cesare woke alone, of course, but it didn’t matter; the hours he’d spent in his sister’s arms were seared across his mind. With her presence or without it, he remembered everything in perfect, vivid colours.

He dressed in a daze, joined his father in a daze, even listened to the French ambassador in a daze. But then the Pope insisted upon seeing how Lucrezia did, Cesare trailing behind him while his mind spun in circles; he knew perfectly well how she did ( _why deny ourselves the pleasure?_ ).

And then she was there, before him, flushed and beautiful and smiling as his father, _their_ father, teased her over her wedding-night. Her gaze slid past him, met Cesare’s, uncertain as she’d never been with him. And he, after twenty years of easy companionship, felt confused and anxious—coloured like a boy, even—but she was Lucrezia, _Lucrezia_ , so there was nothing to do but smile.

**III.**

They didn’t think of the future. They couldn’t; Lucrezia cringed away from her husband, Cesare grimaced at the thought of the inevitable French bride, and they both knew better than to search for escape. Instead, seizing a moment’s freedom from the Church and Naples, she slipped into the private apartments where he sat poring over letters.

“Lucrezia!”

“What are you plotting now—or are you keeping secrets from me?” she said, walking over to her familiar place at his side.

“I keep nothing from you,” said Cesare thoughtlessly, then looked at her.

They grinned at each other despite themselves, and in an instant they were in each other’s arms, kissing more wildly than they had all the night before.

**IV.**

“We are … I am relieved, my love,” said Alexander, “to find you so much more reasonable than your brother.”

Something flickered within Lucrezia’s breast—not ease, nothing could offer that, but something.

“My brother?” she repeated, not daring to hope.

“Cesare must have lost his senses; he drew his sword on the King of Naples,” Alexander said. In a tone of still greater affront, he added, “And he shouted at me.”

Lucrezia took a shuddering breath. Cesare had not stopped this, but he’d tried, he hadn’t betrayed her—she had a refuge still.

**V.**

Lucrezia was everything Cesare desired, everything he ever imagined; but he had never imagined _that_.

Now, hidden in a small alcove, he scarcely knew how to look at her, how to speak: something else he had never imagined.

“Will you think of me, a little, in France?” she said, and his head snapped up.

“I always think of you,” said Cesare, frank and unguarded as he was with few others, as he had always been with her.

She smiled, looking reassured—he still knew how to talk to her, after all—and rested her hand on his leg. “Come back soon.”

He did not misunderstand her.

**VI.**

Lucrezia was lonely in Naples, missing Giovanni and Cesare and Vanozza, disgusted by King Ferdinand, contemptuous of her husband. Now and then she felt some lingering fondness for Alfonso, as she would for a puppy or necklace—but never respect. And so she consoled herself as well as she could, by plotting the king’s death.

Alfonso, when he heard, wept like the delicate hypocrite he was; faithful Micheletto brought Giovanni to her; and Cesare, when he returned to her as promised, laughed outright.

“There is none other like you,” he told her, face alight with her own affection and glee, with _pride_.

Cesare had always adored her, but that mattered less, these days, than the admiration in his eyes, the secrets whispered into her ear, the shared laughter and malice, the loyal insistence on her achievements. Lucrezia, happier than she had been in a long time, leaned into him and thought that it was true—there were no others like them, none at all.

**VII.**

Cesare and Lucrezia both knew that if there had been any doubts about what they were to each other, their reunion must have shattered them. They couldn’t bring themselves to care, still less after Giovanni woke to find himself in Rome.

He stumbled out of the carriage with all his seven-year-old dignity. “Mama, look, isn’t that the— _Uncle Cesare!_ ”

Cesare swung him into his arms, both laughing, and Lucrezia came over to kiss Giovanni’s cheek and assure him that they were home, they were safe now, Grandpapa and Uncle Cesare would never let anything happen to them, and Grandmama would be so happy that she would give them more sweets than they could eat.

Giovanni clung to their hands all the way to Lucrezia’s old apartments in the Vatican. They knew, too, how this would look, all the more as Giovanni had so little of Paolo about him. It wasn’t true, but that would not matter to Alfonso—no more than it mattered to Cesare and Lucrezia themselves.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're wondering if this entire fic is written in sets of sevens or if you're just losing your mind, don't worry. It is. I could pretend there's a deep meaning, but honestly it's just because I happen to be drowning in Chaucer's interminable seven-line stanzas in _Troilus and Criseyde_ for grad school, so my brain is just 'seven! ALL THE SEVENS!!!!'


End file.
